


there is a crack in everything (that's how the light gets in)

by trash king murphamy (blackmaggiecat)



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post-Season/Series 02, imma ignore all the s3 nastiness, platonic clarphy gives me life, this is pure angst and i don't regret it
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-08
Updated: 2016-03-08
Packaged: 2018-05-25 09:29:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6189142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackmaggiecat/pseuds/trash%20king%20murphamy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clarke had left Camp Jaha to find peace. Murphy had left it to find... well, something. In the end, though, they just found each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	there is a crack in everything (that's how the light gets in)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Dontfloatthe100](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dontfloatthe100/gifts).



> hi, so this chapter has a really rocky start but i promise it'll get better in time.
> 
> title from 'anthem' by leonard cohen.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A very crappy beginning to a hopefully less-crappy fic.

It had been three weeks and four-and-a-half days since Clarke had left Bellamy at the gates of Camp Jaha. 

 

Not that she was counting or anything.

 

In all honesty, she wasn't sure what she had been looking for, coming out here. She had wanted to clear her head, she supposes; maybe she wanted peace. All she knew was that the drudge back to Camp Jaha had been stifling. Every time she looked at one of her people, she saw the blood staining their clothes, could see the ghosts of Mountain Men hovering around their slumped frames. Every time she looked up at Bellamy, at the worry lines already showing on the elder leader's face, she was reminded of what she had done, could almost feel the blood on her hands.

 

Even now, three weeks and four-and-a-half days later, her hands still itched, she still wanted to wash them until they were clean of the Mountain Men's blood, of Finn's blood, of everyone's blood. 

 

She had, the first day after she had left camp. She had happened upon a spring of water, and had washed herself time after time, until her skin was raw and bleeding and it hurt to much to touch her own flesh, trying desperately to rid herself of the feeling that her skin had become much to small, like her bones and muscles would finally burst out and she would metamorphasize into the monster she knew she was.

 

With time, the desperate need had faded, but only just. Now it was only her hands that bothered her so, as if the palms could still feel the lever underneath them, as if everywhere the lever had touched had fused her skin with the spirits of those she had killed, their spirits sending ghost tremors whenever she almost forgot what her self-imposed exile was caused by. As if she would ever really forget.

 

* * *

 

The first few days Clarke had been out of camp, she had just ran. She wasn't sure what she was running to, or running from, but she just knew that she needed to put distance between herself and this constant feeling of dread pooling in her chest. 

 

After a while, she began to realize that no matter how far she got, no matter how far she got, the feeling in her chest would never really fade, her constant need to tear her skin off would come in phases, that no matter where she ran, there were some things she couldn't run from.

 

So she turned back around. She ran back the way she came, not quite back to Camp Jaha, but to the other place that really meant something to her.

 

The Dropship.

 

She knew it was an elephant graveyard to her people; no one went there anymore unless in dire need, like with Lincoln or Finn. They were all terrified by the blood that soaked every orifice of the earth, of the skeletons that were just beginning to be overgrown with moss and plant life. Was it a place of memories? Sure. A place of death? Most definitely. But the 100 had moved on to other things, hands wrapped up in recovery and PTSD too much for them to bother to visit the place where they had endured (arguably) some of the second-worst experiences of their lives.

 

She wondered how Bellamy or Raven would react, knowing that while Clarke wasn't in camp, but was still barely outside. She could almost hear Raven's cry of "Unbelievable!" and Bellamy's soft chuckle. But that thought hurt too much, because when she thought of Bellamy and Raven she thought of camp, and when she thought of camp, it brought back memories of all of the things that she had run, like a coward, to forget.

 

So three weeks and something like two days after Clarke had settled to spend her little exile inside of the dropship, she had become far too comfortable with the idea that no one was around. She became used to the silence, and began to take up humming tunes her father had taught her before his death. 

 

And because of that, it took her longer than it should have to hear the soft footsteps outside of the dropship.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope this isn't as bad as I think it is so far! I promise it will improve with time.


End file.
